


Trial of the Fool

by vaultbug



Series: nail and shield [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Fluff, M/M, Rescue, Tiso is Rescued from his Bad Decisions ft. coliseum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22697704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug
Summary: "And you're angry at me because I'm helping you?!""I was doing practically fine!" Tiso snarled from under the other bug."You were going to be crushed!""Small details!"
Relationships: Quirrel & Tiso (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight)
Series: nail and shield [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641145
Comments: 29
Kudos: 187





	1. Rescue

Quirrel did not mean to become distracted.

The coliseum throbbed, feverish with its vulgarity; drums bellowed, the audience gave hearted cries of delight. Orange was everywhere; both the sickly infected and the orange of rust and blood mixed together that stained the stadium in coats of visage paint. What was not corroded was crumbling ruin; dirty benches, filthy stands. He had never noticed how clean he was until he walked through the gates into filth.

He was not sure why he was still here, as he had no intent to wander into the crowd and sit down. It had...just happened, really. One minute he was turning to go, next fevered hands and excited eyes had led him down the side of the arena to a seat closer to the circular plain. As sickened as he was he stayed, curious to why everyone was so fixated on the empty plain. 

( _you know why_ )

“What is going on?” He asked the bug near him.

“Trial, trial,” she chanted back. Her eyes were hidden but then she turned and he was all too aware of the lost glint to them, orange taint having consumed their focus long ago. “Trial, trial. Blood, blood. Want to see, want to see.”

Trial. “Oh,” he murmured back and shifted away. She did not comment. Rather, she did not seem to recognize he was there afterwards. The battlefield was all that mattered now. Infection had taken the rest away.

He leaned back. Another bug ran out into the field, a rake in hand and as the crowd watched the bug ran it through the sand, making it nice and even ground. How many fighters, he wondered quietly, how many had lost their lives to that sand, bleeding out in those grains? It was so clean, for a graveyard.

He should go. He really should. If Hallownest was a dead world sprung to life, the arena was a corpse possessed by vitality, chitin and carapace given life for the lust of blood. It wasn’t what he seeked.

He stood to leave.

The gates shot open, a vicious noise that drew his attention back to the sand. The crowd screamed together and Quirrel found himself deaf as the word _fool, fool, FOOL_ became all he could hear. Echoing through the coliseum it became an anthem, a chant. _Watch for the fool, watch them, watch them!_ He paused in his exit and waited to see.

The challenger stepped out. Blue hood, darker armour. The shield at his side was unmistakable.

Quirrel thought: _oh_.

Tiso walked to the center with the air that he belonged; not overzealous but with a determination Quirrel knew only a few bugs had. Here stood someone who was imbued with the confidence that he knew what he was doing and the coliseum ate it up like sickened ticks. Stamping feet rose up and down the aisles and on his right that bug was whooping like the rest. The chant became a fever, a sickness just like the infection.

_“Fool, FOOL, FOOL --!”_

Quirrel did not recognize how he found his seat again, nor how his nail found itself on his knees. His gaze was glued to Tiso and as he watched, Tiso turned and faced the audience to bow, and the cheers grew even louder.

He was worried. The part he faintly remembered being described as calculating, sometimes paranoid looked at the bug and thought: not long, not long will he stand there. In the sand of this graveyard Tiso seemed rather small, and the walls surrounded him like a rotten cage, jagged and so, so ready to bite.

Though perhaps that was the architecture. It was easy to look down on someone’s performance when the seats sat high; easier to laugh at them, jeer at failures, worry.

(or perhaps that was his bias.)

The coliseum rumbled and silence fell like a heavy slap onto the audience. Quirrel watched Tiso’s eyes dart around the arena, then took his stance. One long exhale, as if steadying nerves.

The first challenge rose.

Two sturdy Fools, followed by six more, then twelve. No sooner than they touched the arena Tiso took off, weaving between them as if possessed, shield meeting nails and his body ducking between. A fool made to gut him and missed, hitting his friend; and as the bug froze in horror looking at his blade, Tiso jumped and cracked his shield into his head so hard the noise of carapace splitting was audible from where Quirrel sat. Then the bug grabbed from the ground the thrown blade of another and went through legs, slashing at poorly covered parts of chitin that were weak. Three fools buckled, then had their throats slashed out. Orange puddles poured where they fell.

He did not stop moving. That was what astonished Quirrel. Whereas the others seemed hesitant to attack, calculating Tiso was not. His moves were all impulse, instinctive techniques; defend the body, rush in, take advantage of the hesitation. If he stopped moving he would die. A self-destructive fighting style but one that played off against such larger bugs. No one could react fast enough because Tiso did not give them enough time to think. This was no sparring technique, more trained to kill, trained for weakness. 

He thought back to their spar on the edges of Blue Lake, how weak Tiso had seemed when caught off-guard. Perhaps it was because this style could not be done without hurting Quirrel, without fear of taking it too far. 

Tiso raised the shield and smashed it again before he was gone between legs, blue hoodie zig-zagging between bodies. A nail followed him but was not fast enough. Retreat, strike. Retreat. Push in. Dart back. 

He was good, Quirrel thought in wonderment.

Another shriek of metal and out of the coliseum’s pits poured furious Hoppers, great and small. Under them the fools were crushed and Quirrel rose from his seat in horror as the blue hood vanished; yet as he watched a nail thrust up and suddenly Tiso was out, stained orange and panting. The arena closed in and another great one descended; but he only ducked and opened its guts from underneath. Then the bug took one knee and exhaled harshly just to wretch himself up back into stance. He brandished his shield like a sword, aggressive.

The opponents blended together after that. Eventually Quirrel realized he was still standing but had no urge to sit down. Watching Tiso had robbed him of all feeling but a sort of mixed glee and horror that continued as the bug showed no sign of slowing. Despite how his arms wavered and body trembled the bug refused to quit, to slowen. 

How did he still go on? It must be the adrenaline, or some rush. Did he always train himself at the edge of exertion, never to rest or recover? He thought of Tiso’s dislike of serenity, of Blue Lake. Somehow, it made sense now.

Then. The waves paused; the coliseum grew silent and as Quirrel’s anxiety grew, Tiso took the time to rest. Or perhaps his body gave out on him. In the center he took one knee and breathed harshly, inhales sounding more like choked gasps. He seemed tired, borderline trembling from overexertion. His eyes looked unfocused.

(“ _It’s called a tactical recovery,_ ” Tiso’s voice echoed in his mind.)

It was too quiet. Unwittingly, his hand on his nail clenched.

The bug next to him chittered. “Here it comes,” she laughed; and as Quirrel looked to her, a single orange tear trickled from her eye. “Here it comes, here it comes.”

The words felt heavy in his mouth. “What?” Quirrel looked then to Tiso. Something in him rang numb as a box emerged over the panting warrior; then he realized, _oh_ as infection poured from it onto the ground. Before he could shout a warning, the cage opened and out of it, a Brooding Mawlek flung itself out of the box and into the arena with glee. 

Tiso looked up, and his eyes went wide. From his crouch he would not be able to move in time, would be crushed. The shield came up but under that weight nothing would be able to survive. 

Time seemed to slowen. Quirrel did not think, and _leapt_.

The Mawlek shrieked, a thin whistle that pierced through the coliseum and fell back; Quirrel breathed out, and then darted through those legs again to cut a line on the other side. Through. He did not bother to think of the consequences of his actions, only skidded across sand to Tiso’s stunned form. Picking him up, he dashed halfway across the coliseum, skidded until the distance was good. Safe. That’s better. He flicked the blood off the nail again and blinked. The Mawlek screamed again and flailed the nubs of limbs it no longer had.

In his arms Tiso trembled. Ah, yes. He was still holding on, wasn’t he? Quirrel let the bug go and Tiso scrambled back; in his scramble he yanked the nail from Quirrel’s hand and pointed it to him. Then, recognition fell and the shoulders slumped relaxed. Three seconds. Another scream. The fools and crowd were murmuring, unsure of what they were seeing. The coliseum stood still.

“Hello,” he greeted with a wave.

Silence popped. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Tiso cried out.

Alright. Not the reception he was going for. Quirrel dropped his hands abashed and squinted as Tiso immediately launched into an assault of potential verbal harassment. “What are you doing?” The bug bellowed again and launched himself across the sand to slash at a stunned fool with Quirrel’s nail. Startled, the others flinched then resumed the attack. “I had that!”

“My friend, you did not,” Quirrel said back. The twisted feeling had gone away in his guts and now all he could feel was a vibrant joy, despite Tiso’s rapidly growing anger and insults. He threw Tiso’s shield back to the bug and Tiso launched the nail at his head -- which was an easy enough dodge and the hooded warrior was kind enough to throw it hilt-first to skewer him so Quirrel could pluck it out of air. “On the contrary, I believe you were about to be crushed.”

The Mawlek leered up from its undignified landing, feral in intent to kill. Tiso shoved Quirrel away as it threw up the infection inside it, bile as potent as the leaking orange from the nubs of legs Quirrel had skewered off. Quirrel ducked behind a nearby corpse; Tiso did not and faced the legless creature alone. Normally he’d be nervous, if it were not for the shield Tiso carried.

Still. “Careful,” he warned from his corpse cover.

“Careful -- oh, _by the fools_ what are you even _doing_ here?” Tiso cursed; the splurt of infection the Mawlek coughed out bounced off his shield uselessly and splattered in boiling streams of orange around him. “I thought you were some sorta wanderer, traveller, too good for a good fight type of bug! Were you watching? Interested in the view of glory from afar?” The infection dried up and the bug turned to face him. “Pathetic,” he glowered.

The coliseum groaned and released more critters into the ring. The crowd, finally having found its voice after the twist of this fight, stamped even louder.

Quirrel chose to ignore the jab. “I found myself distracted on the way back to the City of Tears,” he said back and dashed up to skewer the nearest Vengefly. 

“And thought I was a damsel in need of saving?” Tiso’s voice was falsetto; then, angrily he grabbed another Vengefly and yanked down. Quirrel ducked under and skewered the fly; then saw Tiso’s angry glare. “Oy, that’s _mine_.”

“Sorry,” he hummed then asked, “Should I suppose I will not be receiving a thank you, then?”

“Shove. Off.” The husk slid off his nail and was replaced by a vehement glare of Tiso as the bug leaned past him to smash his shield into another husk. Quirrel placed a hand on his shoulder and yanked his friend back to slash at the one behind him. They stood, back to back as the crowd jeered and hollered. The Mawlek hurled once more and the arena filled with orange acid; though this time right as Quirrel was about to accept a few burns to the head, Tiso pulled him close and raised his shield over them. 

He took this time to comment some more. “I did expect a fair bit more gratitude,” he noted. Tiso’s eye twitched. “It seems yet again I am overly optimistic."

“What, did you expect a hug and a kiss?” Tiso spat. From this angle he could see the bug’s mandibles from the dark of his hood, chattering angrily. “I _had_ this and you know --”

The Mawlek, tired of this repetitive squawking, swiped the air; far away, but not far enough for Quirrel’s standards and so he dashed back, Tiso in tow. Tiso yelped, then hit him on the back of the head. “Warn me!” The bug bellowed, each word practically a growl. How a noise that furious could come from a carapace that small astonished him.

“My apologies,” he said and then yanked Tiso’s shield up for him. The splurt of infection staggered Tiso back into his body and there they stayed as the coliseum growled again and more waves of Fools came up and surrounded them. The crowd was jeering, some were booing. “Incoming.”

“ _Ugh_ \- this isn’t right,” Tiso muttered; Quirrel felt the voice against his chest. "The little fool told me there wasn’t supposed to be any fools after a while, told me I would get better enemies. This is grub play here, hardly a challenge! How am I supposed to prove myself if -- ”

The warrior cut himself off. There was deathly silence. _Oh boy,_ Quirrel thought as Tiso slowly turned around to face him. 

“ _You_ ,” the bug seethed.

“Mhm?”

“That’s why I’m getting these squirts! It’s _your_ fault!” Tiso hollered; then ducked as the fools finally grew close enough to start swinging. The shield came up and cracked into helm, helmet, head. Three sets went down, carapaces caved in. Then came the fury again. “You messed the trial up!”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Tiso was not done. “First that little _nuisance_ claims the top of each trial,” the bug snarled and brought his shield down again to the left. “Now _you_. Everyone’s messing me up! Must you all stand in the way of my glory?!”

“Must I remind you that you almost died?” Quirrel called back and flipped his nail up, brought it down. A winged fool suddenly found herself flightless, then headless. "It seems to me you consider that unimportant."

“I was _fine!_ ”

One more rumble, and then the coliseum spread into multiple gates; and between them the still-bleeding Mawlek screeched and spat acid once more. He dashed near Tiso and the bug rose his shield; together they watched as the other fools sizzled, some ignoring the bubbling orange on their armour and arms. 

Then. Tiso stiffened, tapped his shield and pointed through the assault of bugs ahead; Quirrel got the idea -- they rushed forward, Tiso at front to strike towards the Shielded Fool. The fool fell for the trick and went for Tiso, then his body was parted neatly by Quirrel dropping from overhead. And again. And again. Nail and shield swung together, two fighters working as one. 

It was not fair and the audience knew it. Jeers grew and some grew bold enough to call for more critters, more fools. The coliseum obliged and suddenly Quirrel found himself surrounded and no Tiso in sight. With a hum he slashed through and looked again. Tiso was currently under five husks and fighting, claw and nail to break free. 

“Do you need help now?” He deadpanned at the squirming bug.

“No!"

A husk was kicked off the pile and sent flying to Quirrel. He skewered it before it struck the ground. “Are you certain?" He asked again.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m _fine!_ I’m pissed that you think otherwise!”

Quirrel blinked. Then he swiped at the additional husks around Tiso's body until the swarm became more a trickle of carapace and visage. "So you're angry at me,” pause, “Because I'm helping you?"

There was a hesitation in Tiso’s next words, either because one of the husks had gotten their hands around his throat or because he was furious beyond words. Eventually, the bug hollered. "I was doing practically fine!"

Oh, pits smelt him. "You were going to be crushed!"

"Small details!"

What good was it to be selfless when this was the reward he got, a small part of him thought. Then he shook it away with a sigh. 

"I do believe they're trying to kill us," he remarked as five more cages rose from the pits. 

"You do believe - oh my _god_ what the _hell_ do you think they were trying to do before?" Tiso spun his shield and the edges unlocked; a spray of orange emerged from under a Hopper again. Duck and weave. They were at opposite sides of the arena now and he had to strain to hear Tiso’s voice. “You pissed them off! There’s never been a challenge completed by two warriors, especially one who wasn’t invited -- you haven’t paid the toll and now since everyone knows I know you, it’s going to look worse!”

“You have to pay to fight?"

Tiso made to yell. He did not get the chance. Another Mawlek leapt down and from across the arena surrounded Quirrel could do nothing but stare in horror as it fell down and hit the warrior.

By the legs, he was lucky there. One glanced off his shield and sunk into sand; but Tiso gave a sharp cry out and he knew that limb was broken, weight was too heavy to properly deflect. Still Tiso darted back and then, fell over. His shield hit the ground. Inching forward the bug reached out for his weapon, still stubborn despite tears rolling down his cheeks.

The Mawlek advanced.

Something in his mind cracked apart, a gentle snap like shell from limb.

The next moments came as a blur; curving nails, screaming husks. Dash through and weave out, breathe in. Tiso in his arms, irritatedly batting him away but too weak to resist. Dodging again and latching the shield to his arm, batting his way through the crowd of husks and through another Mawlek, swiping nail hard enough until his fingers ached and knuckles cracked. Using the nail more like a club, a fine-toothed axe to chop through. Not tunnel vision but close, enough that what really mattered to him was Tiso’s inhales short and sweet against his neck. Cradle him. Use the Mawlek as a means to get higher. 

Jump.

He leapt up the side of the wall and continued, graceful scrambling, nail digging to jump higher, again. Then, screaming downwards they hit the bleachers and ran through. The infected crowd angrily grabbed at them, tearing claws, screaming voices. His nail weaved to and fro now, gentle with skewering; the ones that grabbed him had limbs cut off like a slap on the wrist for misbehaving. The little fool cried, _coward_ , and Quirrel had half the mind to rip the nail through him too but stayed his hand, his anger. 

The air was cold outside, but almost fresh compared to the reek of death inside the coliseum. Down they ran and so quick was his pace that the Belfys that lined the path did not even bother to rise from their hidden nooks. Then, down they fell through the elevator shaft and he clutched Tiso close, other hand digging the nail down the wall. Metal squealed under strong ore, probably bad for the nail. Oh well. It did not matter. What mattered was the liquid he now felt dripping down his side that was not his. 

Where was the nearest hot spring? The little traveller had one on their map once, in the old entertainment house. He’d have to get there quickly. 

“Are you still with me, my friend?” He huffed.

“Leave me,” Tiso wheezed in his neck.

He found he had no response to that but to continue running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> done for @wishuponacrane! happy 3rd anniversary hollow knight!!!
> 
> check me out @vault_boii (my name is vaultbug) on twitter and @vaultbug on tumblr. feel free to drop by just to scream about bugs. ^^


	2. words shared

The hot springs were empty when the elevator rose to a stop at the tip of the tower, yet Quirrel spared no time to thank forgotten gods for this blessing. The weight in his arms did not allow for that. In one movement he stripped himself of his nail (jammed between floor-tiles, that would be a good enough sheath) and lowered himself and Tiso to the ground softly, careful of the bleeding wound. 

Tiso did not move. For a moment Quirrel feared the worst; but then he saw the bug’s eyes squint open from his hood, watering but _fierce._ The warrior drew a shaky breath and reached out with trembling hands. "W-where are --?" He tried and broke off, voice clogged.

Quirrel knelt. “We’re safe,” he reassured him.

“Where -- where is my shield,” the bug choked back at him. His eyes darted about the room, panicked. 

Ah, of course that was what he was concerned about. Quirrel felt irritation rise, mixed with half-exasperation. "I have it."

“Give it,” Tiso coughed and raised one hand towards him. 

Quirrel shook his head and undid the straps in front of him, dropping the shield just out of Tiso’s reach. “You’re injured. Leave it." He remarked. “The shield will not go anywhere.”

Tiso narrowed his eyes. Then he lunged and Quirrel just barely caught him before they were squabbling across the floor, Tiso’s hands tight on his bandana. One fist connected with the side of his head and stunned him; but there was little strength behind the blow and he was easily able to overpower the taller ant. Straddling him he pinned the bug useless to the ground and waited for Tiso to stop struggling. It took about fifteen seconds before the bug began to hack up his insides rather than resist the grip. 

He got up. As soon as his weight was gone Tiso turned to his side and began spitting white, one hand clenching the crack down his carapace. He listened to every wet hack and fought the urge to think of the bug as already dead. Ignore the memories of dying travellers and stubborn warriors he had come across in his travels, don't think of cracked carapaces found in ditches, husks shattered and frail. It was too soon for those thoughts. Tiso was alive, although fragile. There was hope.

Hope was a dangerous thing.

It was another half minute before Tiso’s coughs subsided to ragged breathing. One fist hit the tiles of the floor angrily. “Give me my shield,” the bug gasped.

“Let me look at your wound first,” Quirrel said back. 

There was no noise except Tiso’s ragged breathing. Then Tiso waved a hand. “If she has _one_ scratch on her,” he threatened.

She? No way he meant the shield -- but then again, this was Tiso they were talking about. Quirrel twitched his mandibles and shut off all scalding remarks to move closer. “How are you feeling?”

Tiso’s wavering eyes flicked to the tower’s ceiling before he tried to push himself up. Instead his arm buckled and Quirrel was quick to catch him before he brained himself on the tile floor. "I'm fine," the bug snapped -- he batted away Quirrel's hands and tried to sit up again. What he managed was a half-slumped posture, so there he stayed, glaring up at Quirrel as if this was _his_ fault. "Where did you take me?"

“We’re in the City of Tears. A hot spring secret.”

“You took me out of the Coliseum,” Tiso said and even injured he appeared to be swelling like a tick. Here we go. Quirrel was in no mood for this back and forth, not when he hadn’t looked at the wound yet. "You _took_ me out of the Coliseum!"

He put his hands together. “Could I convince you to be mad at me later?"

“ _No_ ,” Tiso seethed.

Alright. Quirrel took a seat next to him -- then before the bug could go off on rants about lost honour or forsaken glory, he pulled Tiso closer to examine the wound. Tiso twitched away from his hands and squirmed. 

“You’ll rip it open more,” he hummed.

“I’m fine,” the bug hissed, though his watering eyes said much else. “Just -- just let me rest a bit here.”

“You’re bleeding,” Quirrel deadpanned back and without waiting for Tiso’s approval, sat fully down now and dragged the bug back flush against him, draping Tiso's upper half over his thighs. Now he could look clearly at the gaping wound, although Tiso's indignant flailing made it far more difficult. "Settle," he warned again and lightly flicked the side of the bug. "You're going to break open your wound more."

"I'm fine," Tiso repeated, like some sort of chant. He slapped Quirrel's hands away and blanched when Quirrel (having enough) seized both his wrists and wrestled them back against his chest. There they stayed, twitching in his grip as he used his other hand to poke at the wound. "H-hey!"

"Deep blow but I don’t think it’s fatal,” he noted over the protests. The twist of worry in his chest unravelled, just a bit. “You’re lucky.”

"Like I said. I'm fine!” It came out a bit strangled though, and Quirrel glanced down to see Tiso avoiding his eyes and tugging at his pinned wrists. _Hm_ , a part of him thought but he made no comment on it. “Lemme go, you craven lil’ --”

Quirrel kept his grip. “Do you promise not to move?”

“You want me to _what_?”

“You’ll hurt yourself more,” Quirrel explained. He gestured to the wound, then back to Tiso. “Tell me if I need to restrain you so you don’t hurt yourself further.”

Tiso harrumphed, then blew air into Quirrel’s mask. He leaned back, amused. How childish of this bug. “Well?” He asked.

“I _promise_ ,” the bug scowled. “Now lemme go.”

He released Tiso’s wrists. Tiso snatched them back and as he watched, the bug examined them as if he expected to see corrosive acid dripping off his carapace from Quirrel’s touch. “You’re a _prat_ ,” he swore eventually.

“Rude words for the one who saved you.”

“Yet you won’t even give me back my shield."

Oh, how he whined. Quirrel tilted his head. “Will your shield heal your injuries?” 

A pause. “Perhaps.” Tiso huffed out, chest still puffed. Quirrel watched him, then leaned over to feel the water. It was a shame it wasn’t cold. Hm. It would do. “Perhaps it has magical qualities. You wouldn’t know. Not at all. I still haven't shown you its full potential yet." 

“Now that I would like to see.” 

“You will,” Tiso warned.

He hummed back, pulled his hand back and let the water trickle down into the shattered carapace.

Tiso jolted -- then hollered so loud Quirrel was sure everyone in the city heard his cry. One fist connected with Quirrel’s chest and he huffed, but otherwise did not move. “You’re breaking your promise,” he mused.

Another fist connected with his chest. Tiso swore something in a language Quirrel did not recognize. It sounded like a frill of mandibles (like worker ants sharing rapid stories) and then both of the bug’s hands shot up to seize his bandana. Quirrel had no chance to react before the bug yanked him down, faces mere inches apart. From this close he could see every bit of rage in Tiso’s eyes. “I _told_ you,” the bug gritted out eventually, “To _warn_ me.”

“Apologies,” Quirrel said back, although he wasn’t feeling particularly sorry at the moment and laughter danced at the edges of his voice. The insincerity must’ve been audible, for Tiso’s eyes widened and he got another punch in the side for that. The blow barely registered through his carapace. “Oh, careful now."

“You are _infuriating_ ,” Tiso snarled. His voice was thick with accent, trills still overwhelming the common tongue. How close he was. It’d be so easy to lean down and nick the side of his neck -- but those were lonely thoughts of lonely bugs. Not the time to be thinking of Tiso in such a way. "I’m starting to think you relish in my misery! It’s the only reason. You tried to drown me at Blue Lake --”

“You fell in, actually --”

“-- _and_ destroyed my chances at the coliseum! Made a fool of me in the arena,”

“Saved your life.”

“-- and now that little nuisance still has the top of the last trial!” Tiso hissed out. “It’s completely your, _your_ fault!”

“Has anyone told you you’re dramatic?” Quirrel noted and cupped another handful of water over the wound. 

The hand on his carapace clenched up. “ _Unghhhhhh_ ,” was Tiso’s elegant response. 

Though now he was finally able to look at the wound, cleaned from blood and grit. He gave it a glance (Tiso’s trembling aside) and the sight made him wince. It was deeper than he had thought before, and why Tiso was coughing up blood made more sense now. Yet it was not fatal. Not yet. 

He eyed the hot spring. Perhaps it would be easier to heal if Tiso was relaxed. The Spring would stitch a fine outer layering to the wound, seal it closed for his carapace to do the rest. 

If Tiso was willing.

He glanced back down at the bug. Tiso was breathing regularly again, although his mandibles were still twitching. He looked like he was ready to bite Quirrel's neck out. Stubborn warrior. 

"Hypothetically, what would you say if I needed to submerge you in the spring water?" He asked slyly.

"No," Tiso shot down.

“And, still hypothetically, if you were to die if I don’t?”

Tiso’s face scrunched up. 

“Do not say you’d prefer death,” Quirrel exhaled.

“It _stings_ ,” Tiso said back. One hand fell on his broken carapace and the ant traced the edges of it, as if mapping out its depth. With a sharp sigh, the warrior crossed his arms. “Fine, fine. Get on with it.”

“I’ll have to pick you up,” Quirrel warned.

“I know.”

“Are you okay with this?”

“I said _get on with it_ ,” Tiso growled and it would’ve been impressive had he not broken down coughing in the midst of it.

Quirrel had to suppress the laugh. “I'm picking you up now," he told him. "Please do not kick me in the face."

He tucked his arms around the ant's waist and thighs and hoisted. The bug was surprisingly light -- Quirrel had expected him to be heavier (hench the bridal carry) but if he wanted to he could probably sling the bug over his shoulder. Though that would probably cause Tiso to knee him in the torso. Bad idea. 

Tiso's head lolled against his chest. Another surprise. He had assumed the bug would glare at him the entirety of the short trip into the water, but he stayed docile; although his hands were clenched until Quirrel was sure they had turned pale in strain. 

He stepped into the water. Its warmth was familiar; it surged through his shell and he let go of a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. That was the trick of the springs indeed. Tension flushed from him, drained out by the water and half of him wanted to sit and rest there, just for the evening. But Tiso was squirming now, antsy at the sight and so he only took a knee to hold the bug overhead. The water lapped at the warrior’s back and Tiso inhaled.

“This will hurt,” he stressed. Empty words, of empty warnings.

“Yes, I _know_ .” Tiso hissed. “Come _on_.”

He lowered the bug in. Tiso seized up and made the noise of a kettle deflating; both of his hands found Quirrel’s wrists and seized on like a vice until Quirrel could not feel them. Together they sat down, linked at the arms and after five minutes Tiso finally let go. His jaw unclenched audibly.

It was quiet then. The hotspring’s water was murky around Tiso’s body but it seemed to be doing its work and that was promising. Absentmindedly Quirrel found himself slouching into Tiso and expected backlash. How funny then, that Tiso hadn’t moved from him, leaning into him like he was a pillow. Perhaps he was tired. Quirrel would not fault him for that.

This was the first time he had seen Tiso relaxed. 

(and the arena’s voice chanted in his head -- _fool, fool, fool_ )

How curious. He thought back to their first fight, to the conversation shared at the lake’s shore. How Tiso angrily denied proving anything in the arena. How the bug pushed and strained himself past exertion, both at the lake shore and the arena. How now, Quirrel could feel scars and scrapes, callosed carapace against his own.

The thought slipped out. “What do you want to prove in the coliseum so bad?”

The question hung in the air. Then Tiso shot up and grabbed his hand. Quirrel let him, fearful of the wound and nervous at the fire in the bug’s eyes. Tiso seemed to note that, as his grip immediately slackened and the fire grew dull. “You’re mocking my worth,” the bug slurred, half-delirious in pain.

“No, no.”

“No, you are,” Tiso swore. “You and all them other bugs. All _mocking_. I can see your grins. You think -- you think I’m--”

Ah. Quirrel tilted his head as the bug cut himself off. Ah, that made more sense. Self-worth then. A warrior’s burden. A part of him, selfish, was glad to have found other callings than the thrill of the fight. Carefully he brought his hands down, and when Tiso did not flee, wrapped them around his arms. The bug’s body stiffened against his shoulder.

“I am not mocking,” he said. 

Tiso did not respond. It was something else to be this close to another bug. Made him itch for a desire to move closer, pull him near -- but those were just instincts and Quirrel was above that sort of impulsive self-sabotage. “You did not answer last time,” he elaborated. “Only grew angry and nearly drowned us both. May I ask again?”

“It is none of your business,” the bug snarled. There was no bite to it.

“Maybe so.” He still had Tiso’s body in his grip and found him warm to touch. Against his fingers Tiso was frozen, rigid. Ah, uncomfortable then. He let go. “Then it is none of my business.”

There was silence then, for a moment. The hot springs bubbled. Then in one movement Tiso turned around and looked at him. His gaze was unreadable. 

"Why do you care?" The bug shot.

"Curious is all." He raised his hands. "I've been told I'm nosey. Forgive my words.”

It was Tiso’s turn to tilt his head. Now Quirrel found himself under a suspicious gaze and he wouldn’t lie to say it was...unsettling. “Curiosity led you to leap into the arena?” The warrior baited.

There was no good answer to this that wouldn’t make Quirrel seem stalkerish, nor was there a good lie that Quirrel could protest to. He wasn’t even sure himself why he had taken Tiso’s safety a priority. It was merely something so unconscious of a desire he hadn’t really recognized it until now. He’d been chalking it up to being a friend, a friendly stranger; that Tiso deserved more than a death in an arena. But he’d left bugs to die before, hadn’t he? On the road, in ditches, bugs who did not want assistance. Stubborn warriors. 

Then why had he stopped Tiso? To let one sacrifice himself in the arena was his goal, stubborn fool. Quirrel was not one to stand in the ways of other bug’s goals. Yet he was here, nursing a bug back to health now. Why had he rescued Tiso?

Tiso was so close. If he wanted to, Quirrel could nudge his head closer and nick him affectionately, a small kiss. Did he want to? Perhaps so. It was tempting, a vice he hadn’t felt before. 

Was that the reason? 

Interesting.

Let unspoken things lie. He took Tiso’s hand instead, held it. “Rest,” he told the bug.

Tiso blinked. Then, so slowly the bug drew back -- still holding his hand, allowing it -- and melted into his side. From the corner of his eyes he saw the warrior’s eyes close, one hand encompassing his wound.

He closed his own eyes, leaned back; and when Tiso squeezed his hand once, he let a smile drift behind his mask.

Ah. Rest did sound nice.


End file.
